


Happy Ending People

by Darling_Pretty



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU where Steve gets found within a reasonable amount of time, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Pretty/pseuds/Darling_Pretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Peggy Carter did not like to look backwards. Looking back invited thoughts. Looking back invited regrets."</p><p>She'd done her best to move on after the war, and she'd been pretty successful at the beginning. And then Howard's men found the plane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> The things that come to me in the dark of night... Here, have a story in which things for Peggy and Steve are significantly less complicated by 70 years.

Peggy Carter did not like to look backwards. Looking back invited thoughts. Looking back invited regrets.

When she was five years old, she had broken a vase in her grandmother’s home, a family heirloom. She was heartsick over it, practically sobbing with the shame as she confessed to her wrongdoings. In that way that only grandmothers can, Peggy’s own had tut-tutted away her tears and insisted that she not give it another thought. The vase was broken and tears could not serve as glue.

Peggy carried that mentality with her throughout her life. Poor marks in school, rare as they were, could only be fixed by more rigorous studying. Her first relationship, a skinny boy two inches shorter than her and afraid to meet her eyes, fizzled two weeks in, and she knew there was nothing for it except to move on. They were only fifteen; it was nothing serious.

Her first roll in the hay, as it were, was at university with a boy who talked too much of poetry and not enough sense, but whose lips could work miracles even with the cigarette that seemed to permanently dangle from them. They met in her classics course, he was a welcome distraction from the drudgery, and he hadn’t shown up to class for almost a week after she’d snuck him into her dormitory. When he finally came back, he wouldn’t look at her and he sat on the other side of the room. She felt the stirrings of heartsickness and promptly banished all thoughts of regret; she had learned, she had grown, and he was a prick. She moved on.

This philosophy served her well in the war. Joining the SSR right out of university, she became tough, hardened, but still aggressively feminine and her lack of regret made her stronger. It served as a cloak of detachment as she made tough calls, as men lived and died around her. The camp reeked of fear and regret; the men were unsure of the future, unsure of death, and they were scared. They had sweethearts back home, parents and siblings praying for their safe return. Peggy was not afraid because she had no expectation of the future and never looked to the past for comfort.

And then there was Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers threw wrenches into Peggy Carter’s worldview like it was his damn job. He was not strong or big or anything her time with the SSR had shown her was typical of a soldier. (Peggy had her fair share of flings in the camp, though never with anyone she directly supervised. She didn’t regret them either.) 

Steve Rogers was kind and almost upsettingly clever and he had a hidden wit that made her duck her head to hide the smile on her lips. He was small and had a page and a half’s worth of various ailments. (By the time Steve had received the serum, she could practically recite his medical records by rote. Asthma, scarlet fever, diphtheria, measles… the list went on. Forget the serum, Steve Rogers was a medical miracle for surviving into adulthood.)

Steve Rogers was just unfailingly, almost infuriatingly good. Peggy marveled how a scrawny kid from Brooklyn, scrappy and battered, could still come off as a corn-fed farm boy with a bright sunny disposition. Of course, the serum helped to feed that illusion, but the aw, shucks smile that Steve had, that hadn’t been helped by the serum. And Peggy Carter, called frigid by the soldiers and exacting by her superiors, found herself warming to him, found herself sloppily emotional and jealous in the face of Steve Rogers. (Peggy Carter still did not regret anything, and she didn’t regret shooting at him.)

She’d kissed him as he readied to board the plane, to do what he’d literally been created to do. She knew that they both knew the risks of battle, of combat, of what he was facing, and she could not bear the thought of regretting never kissing him. So she had and for one beautiful moment, the roar of the world had ceased. She could have kissed him forever.

Back in the radio room, she waited anxiously for news of him and had to sit idly by while he piloted his aircraft to certain death. They made plans to finally get their dance at the Stork Club on Saturday and her chest felt ready to collapse when she told him not to be late. It was easily the worst moment of her entire life and she was certain it always would be. Still, she could not bring herself to regret it. If she’d distracted him at all from the fear of what he was doing, she was infinitely glad to have been there. 

She hoped that he’d known how she felt about him; she didn’t regret their time together in the slightest, but perhaps she wished she had kissed him sooner.

At first, she’d sided with Howard Stark; they should find the plane. Steve deserved it, she thought. He deserved to come home; he deserved a hero’s burial, an American flag draped over his coffin. He deserved a funeral. (And perhaps she desired a proper funeral, to give her the space to grieve properly.)

But after a year of searching, she recognized the futility of the search. For all Howard’s wealth, for all his technological resources, he couldn’t find Steve. And Peggy Carter realized that with each passing day, she was in more and more danger of tethering herself to the past without an anchor in the present. She could easily lose herself in imagining a life with a ring on her finger, as a wife, or a lover, or the meandering path their lives might have taken in another life. It was time to move on.

And so she did; she threw herself into work, she did good. Steve would have liked that. There were others in her bed, and perhaps he wouldn’t have liked that, but she liked to think that he would understand. The others had names, had stories, and Peggy Carter did not learn them. To learn them would be to invite loss and she had lost too much already, though she regretted nothing.

She was the best at her job and she knew it. She carried that knowledge as a shield against the thoughts that tried to plague her. No one else could do what she could, she was the best woman for the job, and her path had led her to it. There was nothing to regret there.

Peggy Carter was hard at work, reading over a report from a debacle that had left an agent dead and another in the hospital. She was trying to figure out what had went wrong, what could have been done differently, when Howard Stark came running up to her desk with the sort of manic energy that she found particularly infuriating. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, looking up and doing her best to telegraph that she was entirely too busy for whatever inanity he might want to share.

“We found it, Carter!”

Peggy’s stomach dropped. Innately she knew what he meant, the gleam in his eyes told her without a word. But she needed to hear it. She needed to hear him say it. She wouldn’t believe it until then.

Carefully, slowly, she arched an eyebrow and folded her hands in front of her. She would not show any sign of the fact that her heart was in her throat. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid, Howard,” she chided. “‘It’ is a terribly vague word.”

“Steve’s plane, Peggy. My guys found it. They’re bringing him home.”

Peggy stood calmly, pushing her chair in and swallowing though her mouth was conspicuously dry, and began to walk. She walked right past Howard Stark, who was looking at her like she might crush him, and into the hallway. She waited until she was safely installed in the ladies’ restroom, locked away in privacy, to promptly lose her lunch.


	2. A Dance That Never Happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, this story is turning into quite the epic. Glad to have you along for the ride!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Discussion of death/ dead bodies.

Peggy Carter was rarely sick; she was strong and took good care of herself. Her mother had often like to remark that her own grandmother had never been sick a day in her life, that she’d only left the world of the living because she was good and ready to, and that Peggy seemed to have inherited this trait. Except, it seemed, in the face of Steve Rogers’ tragic return.

She sat in the stall for almost ten minutes, waiting to be certain that the wave of nausea had passed. When she got up, she checked the mirror; her hair was certainly worse for the wear and her lipstick had smudged. It was only to be expected, but rising above the initial shock was a wall of annoyance. _How dare_ Howard Stark march into her workplace and announce that they’d found Steve’s plane? As if it were just one of his breakthroughs, as if he weren’t playing around with Peggy’s life!

She fixed herself up and when she left the bathroom she could feel eyes following her. Some of the eyes were kindly, worried, sympathetic; Peggy Carter almost felt they were worse than those who were clearly just curious to see the always professional Agent Carter render helpless and sick in the face of jarring news.

Howard was waiting there, still at her desk, though by now he’d laid claim to her chair and put his feet up on the report she was reading. “Feel better?” he asked in a way that suggested he knew exactly why she had left. It only served to annoy her further.

“I’m not sure what you want, Howard,” she snapped. “But I’ve work to do and surely you have another female you can go bother.”

“Eesh, Peg, I know this is an emotional time but lighten up!”

“My name is not _Peg_. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

“Do you want to see him? When they bring him home?”

That was the one thing Peggy Carter admired about Howard Stark- he certainly didn’t pull any punches.

The room was full of agents who were very suspiciously quiet as the worked. The room was never this silent, never had this many men been so studiously typing or staring at papers. Gossipmongers, the lot. 

“Why on earth would-”

“Just thought you’d want to say goodbye is all.”

Peggy’s breath was sharp and deafening in her ears. Eyes were on her and she was drowning without an inch of water. To acknowledge the emotion roiling in her stomach was to admit to these men that she was, indeed, a female with the same female failings they thought so detrimental to decent work. Worse, she could already hear the jeers about Agent Carter working her way to the top whilst lying on her back. Bedding a national hero ought to be worth a promotion or two. Never mind that she’d kissed Steve Rogers a whole whopping one time; they hadn’t even gotten a good dance.

She willed herself still, she willed her gaze steely. She didn’t want to answer Howard. She didn’t want to have this conversation. She had said goodbye to Steve Rogers long, long ago. She didn’t want to say goodbye again. It might kill her.

The room was still silent and everyone was waiting. She had to respond and she needed to respond quickly; she feared she might start weeping and that would be unforgivable.

“No, thank you, Howard.”

“But-”

Peggy’s fists clenched, her right hand twitched, itching to smack the mustache off Howard Stark’s face. Instead, she settled for an incredible lie and a shot to the heart. In a loud, clear voice for all to hear, she said, “Steve Rogers was nothing more than a partner to a dance that never happened, Stark. I don’t know why you feel it’s appropriate to interrupt my work, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. Goodbye.”

Howard had the good grace to leave finally and Peggy stood still as a statue to watch him go. She’d send a note to Jarvis with her apologies after work. Howard couldn’t have liked being sent off with his tail between his legs. But for now, Peggy put her head down and continued to work.

* * *

 

The specter of Steve hung over her for the next two days. Try as she might to banish thoughts of the man, his face haunted her. She was itchy, restless, made of nothing but electricity and the steam from the boiling hot tea she poured into her body like it was an antidote. She dreamed of his eyes, of his arms around her. She woke up a sweaty mess and couldn’t remember the dream that preceded such a state, but it was him. She knew it was him.

It was miserable. She was miserable. She was miserable and she missed Steve. Laid bare like that, Peggy felt vulnerable, so she did what she always did, she worked. The men sensed to stay away; her lipstick was a bloodthirsty shade of red and the wings of her eyeliner sharp enough to kill anyone with the audacity to ask her a personal question. 

The telephone at the office rang and Peggy picked it up, knowing exactly the nature of the call. If Peggy believed in such things, she might call it a premonition. “Carter,” she answered curtly once the connection was made.

“He’s home, Peggy. He’s here. Just thought you’d want to know.” Howard’s voice was tinny, far away and distant. Peggy felt a shiver down to her toes.

She swallowed slowly, careful to breathe in through her nose and out her mouth. The worst thing at this moment would be a repeat of the last time she and Howard spoke. “Thank you for calling,” she said in a slow, measured voice.

“You didn’t seem to take to kindly to the last personal visit. You know, most people would be flatted I took the time-”

“Howard…”

“Down by the docks, Peg. Might want to get there before the suits do.”

He gave her the address, there was a click and Howard was gone. Of course the man didn’t have time for conversational pleasantries. But that said, neither did Peggy.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but her hands began packing up for the day. Her feet followed suit and she was out of the office within moments. She wasn’t even sure she had mentioned she was leaving. But a taxi was hailed and her purse was clutched in hands with ghostly white knuckles. Her nails bit into her palms, surely leaving crescents nearly as red as her lipstick where they did.

Howard was standing out front, arms crossed as he leaned on the building with a smug smile that told her that he was waiting for her. She climbed out of the cab, paid the driver, and walked forward with a will that she was certain wasn’t her own. Every instinct was prompting her to turn around and run, to stay safely ensconced in the world she had build for herself after the war, to quit tearing at the walls that were keeping her alive. Still, her feet moved forward and she nodded to Howard.

He looked less infuriating than he usually did; as she approached, the smirk fell away and he stood straight. He was wringing his hands a bit and Peggy was glad of the fact that she had a purse to anchor her own. “Howard,” she said with a nod. 

“Wasn’t sure if you were gonna show.”

 “Yes, well, I’m here now.”

 “I didn’t know if you wanted to be the first to… uh, see him, so I made ‘em wait until you were here to crack the thing open.”

 “I thought you said you weren’t sure I was going to be here,” Peggy pointed out, pretending that she wasn’t touched by his thoughtfulness nor shaking in her boots.

 “Had a hunch.”

 He offered her his arm and she took it, grateful for the support he was offering. “Thank you, Howard.”

 Together they walked into the warehouse that was apparently serving as a temporary house for all of Howard’s old inventions and now the plane. The room was giant but it was filled to bursting with the fated machine. Peggy’s stomach twisted into knots.

 “Need a bucket?”

 “Sod off.” Peggy rolled her eyes, but she was secretly glad that Howard had poked fun at her; she found her footing in the give and take of their tumultuous relationship.

 They came to a stop in front of the door that was just waiting to be taken off. There were men there with caps off; Peggy wasn’t sure if that was in deference to her or in honor of the fallen hero, but the touch of respect was nice, made her feel as though Steve was honored properly. She was glad it was Howard by her side; Howard called him Steve, he had known the scrawny boy from Brooklyn that no serum would change. He was there for _Steve_ not for Captain America. Peggy appreciated that.

 “You don’t have to do it, you know,” Howard murmured. “We’ll send other people in.”

“No, I want to do this.” Peggy was, yet again, surprised by the certainty in her voice. She should want to wait. The scene was undoubtedly grisly and to see Steve like that could possibly corrupt the fond memories of him. But she needed it. She had to be the first. “I have to.”

A plan was put in place: the men would go in, clear the scene (apparently Howard was not about to put one of the SSR’s best agents in unnecessary danger, mostly out of fear of what might happen to him- at least so he claimed). Peggy would follow and identify the body. Presumably she would not break down and sob. She felt better knowing there was something she could be doing, that she was useful. It was terrible being useless and it made the horror of what she was about to do fade back.

It was freezing inside the cabin, freezing and quiet, save the footfalls of the men and the clicking of her heels; Peggy shivered. Once their job was done, the men stepped back, now truly deferring to her, their eyes turned away to give her some modicum of privacy. She wondered how much Howard had paid them to do so.

The area was oddly pristine given its violent end. There, in harsh spot of her torch, was the pilot’s chair and controls. She had to remind herself to breathe, trying not to think of anything except taking in air and releasing it. The torch’s beam caught something glittering on the floor and Peggy bent to retrieve it, doing all she could to avoid looking at that chair for now.

She strangled the cry that came out unbidden, her hand flying to her throat and looking up at the ceiling. If she looked back down, she’d see her own face staring back at her. She hadn’t realized he had a photograph of her, let alone that he carried it with him. The glass of the case had broken; there was a huge crack all the way across her face. Peggy knew with the same psychic certainty from earlier that Steve Rogers had died looking at her face.

Well, that was that. There was nothing left but to look at the pilot’s seat. Peggy screwed her eyes shut tight, gathering strength, and then opened them to walk around the chair and look. Over the top of his seat, she could see the golden blond hair she’d once longed to run her hands through. She let out a shaky breath as the world narrowed to her and the body in that chair. She kept walking.

A deep, long-buried part of her wanted nothing more than to lie down next to him and follow him into death. She’d forgotten how it felt to be near him, how her skin would be alight with electricity and heat, how his smile could make her do the same without even thinking. She missed him. She missed him so terribly she could barely breathe.

An even deeper, primal part of her wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and rail against the unfairness of a universe that could give her such a wonderful, perfect love and then yank him away in a blazing ball of self-sacrifice and cruelty. She _hated_ this world and everything it had done to Steve Rogers. And, more poisonously, she hated Steve Rogers for being so _damned,_ stubbornly good.

Instead, she kept walking, until she faced him. It took another moment to look at his face but she finally felt as ready as she’d ever be. “My darling,” she whispered, her voice cracking uncomfortably as she tried to remain self-possessed. “My darling, I’m sorry.”

She could have started weeping right there—no one would have blamed her for it. But instead she forced herself to look. He looked no more roughed up than when he’d returned from rescuing the 107th. She was prepared for gore. She wasn’t prepared for him to appear to just be sleeping.

Her hand reached out and pulled back, as she had that first moment after he’d stepped out of the chamber after receiving the serum. She’d been reaching for his chest then, now she reached for his cheek. Just like then, she couldn’t bring herself to touch.

But the momentarily wonderful memory brought her attention down to his uniform, to the star emblazoned on his chest. She was feeling none too charitable to towards the United States government at the moment and she hated that to the world, this lovely, wonderful man whom she adored had died as Captain America.

Peggy Carter was not unobservant and she trusted her instincts. Still, the stress of the day could make anyone a bit loony. So when, for just a moment, she thought she saw his chest move slightly, that is what she told herself. She’d gone a bit barmy and needed to leave.

But then she saw it again. His chest rose. Less than a centimeter, but it rose.

And then it fell.

And rose again.

Peggy nearly dropped her torch. She was losing her mind. She had to be. Steve Rogers was dead and she was looking at his corpse and she had snapped.

Still, her instincts told her better, and Peggy Carter listened to her gut. She fumbled around in the handbag that she still carried, out of fear she’d not know what to do with her hands, digging out a compact and snapping it open and shoving it under his nose.

It fogged.

Not much, but the mirror fogged.

Peggy froze for a moment. This couldn’t be; this was it. It was the madhouse for her as soon as she was out of this accursed plane. But the mirror just kept fogging up under his nose.

She took a deep breath, trying to alleviate the feeling that someone had just punched her in the stomach. Her knees were jelly and she was suddenly quite familiar with the concept of swooning.

Instead, Peggy Carter opened her mouth and, using a rather impressive set of lungs, hollered, “ ** _HOWARD_**!”


	3. Need

When Peggy Carter was seven, the family dog was put down because he had cancer in his bones. She was heartbroken, swearing her heart would be broken forever. Her mother had soothed her cries by rubbing soft circles on her back until she'd fallen into an exhausted, broken sleep. When she woke, there was a warm cup of chamomile tea on her dresser and a biscuit. No words of sympathy, no false sentiments. When she went downstairs, there was no discussion of her emotional break and Peggy found it easy to put on that famed British stiff upper lip.

Peggy Carter wished for nothing more in the moments following her discovery of Steve Rogers' breath that for her mother's hand on her back and a warm cup of chamomile tea. Instead, she fumbled with her fingers to reach out and find his carotid artery, applying a firm pressure as she'd been taught many years ago. Her heart fluttered. There was his pulse. Faint as she felt, but it was there. And where the  _devil_ was Howard? She yelled for him again.

"Ever consider being an opera singer? You've got the lungs. I'm right here, no need to shout." She could have smacked his smug grin right off his face; this wasn't the time for teasing. And at the same time, she could  _kiss_ him because he was the reason this was happening. He hadn't given up the search, he'd found Steve, and now…

"Look," Peggy breathed, pointing to the mirror. "He's breathing."

The word that came out of Howard's mouth was vulgar even for the battlefield.

The next few days passed by in a blur that would never return to Peggy's memory. Ambulances, hospitals, government officials. At some point she was sure that she was interviewed; she was glad she had the presence of mind inside the Valkyrie to pocket Steve's compass. Being questioned about that, when she was already an emotional wreck, would have destroyed any sense of strength Peggy Carter had about her.

The doctors, government doctors,  _secret_ doctors, wanted to cart Steve off, to their  _secret_ lab. Of course they did not specify that they were secret doctors, nor did they specify a secret lab. Still, Peggy knew the inner-workings of the government. She planted her hands on her hips and her feet on the ground and stared with pursed lips until Howard shrugged. Where Steve went, Peggy was going too.

She must have slept at some point, because she woke in what seemed to be a hospital room, immediately jumping up and only relaxing when she saw that Steve was lying in the bed next to her. He had a tube down his throat, to help him breathe as they tried to warm him, Peggy was told. That visual might even be worse that in the plane. She'd seen Steve looking a lot of different ways, but helpless, sickly? It was going to haunt her for the rest of her days, she knew.

He was too big for the hospital bed; he looked out of place. At least he was out of that dratted suit now. He was looking more like her Steve. Funny how the brain worked sometimes—she had spent the past year denying he'd been her  _anything_ and now all she wanted was for him to wake up and be her everything. She watched the doctors come and go, watched officials come and go. She chatted with them, she was pleasant. And, most importantly, she was  _constant_. She did not leave his side. Kind nurses brought her food. She had Howard Stark on her team. She didn't have to go anywhere if she didn't want to.

Howard visited. The office was buzzing with the news of Captain America; there was also talk of Agent Carter's sudden emotional departure, followed by more days off work than anyone could remember her taking off in her entire career. (The count came to two full days, Howard informed her. Time didn't seem to make sense in a room lit by fluorescents and no window.) If there were ever any doubt about Agent Carter and Captain America's relationship, it was long gone now.

Peggy scowled. "I won't leave him," she nearly growled. Howard almost jumped. She didn't blame him; she'd regressed somehow, far less the proper British woman who had walked into the warehouse housing the Valkyrie and far more primal.

"Easy there, Tiger. Nobody's asking you to. But maybe a shower…"

Howard's easy tone was undercut by the worry in his eyes. It didn't escape her notice and if  _Howard Stark_ was worried about her state, perhaps it was time to listen. She nodded. Steve's room had a private bathroom with a shower.

Once Howard left, she went into the bathroom. Her eyes caught a glimpse of herself in the tiny mirror and she winced. This was not the face she was used to seeing; there were dark circles under her eyes and her hair hung limply, stringy and unwashed. She hadn't a spot of lipstick on her lips and the liner around her eyes had smudged into a dark cloud. On the other hand, if there were ever any doubts about her feelings for Steve Rogers, Peggy no longer had them—she could not possibly look like this and believe that she had moved on, that she was fine.

The water was refreshing, almost scalding hot. Peggy took deep breath full of steam and began to feel almost human again. It cleared her head, made her remember how to be objective. She was too close to the situation. She'd charged in blindly and now she was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. She hadn't meant to seem like such a wreck.

She quickly dressed, wrapping her hair in the towel provided, her nose wrinkled. She hadn't changed in several days. She needed to go home and get a change of clothes, some food that hadn't been prepared in an industrial kitchen. She felt sick at the thought of leaving Steve.

Leaving the bathroom, she was surprised to find a pile of neatly folded clothes, all new, but all her size. On top, a short note from Jarvis explained that his boss had sent him for a few items, and he hoped it all fit.

Peggy usually wasn't one for charity and she'd have to chew Howard's ear off for this, but for now she was just happy to feel truly clean and so she quickly changed into a new blouse and skirt. It was nice to know that someone was looking out for her.

Now that she was back in her right mind, the room seemed overwhelming and quiet. Nothing but the hiss of the machine that was supposed to help Steve breathe normally and the steady ticking from the clock on the wall. Now Peggy felt out of place. Even wives left their husbands for a moment, even if just to sleep in a real bed, and here was Peggy almost three days into her time in this room. If she could be sure she could get back in, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing to sleep in her own bed.

She hesitated. If he woke while she was gone… Perhaps it was selfish, but Peggy wanted hers to be the first face he saw. Better hers than a stranger's behind a mask, no matter how kind the doctors had been. But there was truly no guarantee that he  _would_ wake; she needed to keep telling herself that, because her heart simply could not possibly take having hope snatched from it again.

With a sigh, Peggy sat down in the chair where she'd lived for two days. She rubbed her temples with her fingers; her head was pounding and her nail varnish was chipped. "I need you to come out of this, Steve," she said quietly. "I need you to come home."

It wasn't any easy thing for the fiercely independent Margaret Carter, who'd fought her entire life in the heat of flames forging her own path, to admit that she was dependent on someone. But the unpleasant fact of the matter was that now that he was there, she  _needed_ him to somehow, miraculously, make it out alive. One final miracle, if the universe had any miracles left for Steve Rogers. Hell, it could use one of hers, for all she cared. She just wanted him awake and smiling at her.

She felt as though she should cry. That's what would have happened in a film. She would cry, his hand would move, his eyes would flutter, and she'd be a bawling mess, but he would be  _awake_. Instead, her eyes stayed dry and his stayed closed.

Another agonizing three hours proved that nothing was happening any time soon and, as much as she hated it, her body craved the soft bed waiting for her at home.

Standing, she bent and kissed his forehead. She would have left a mark if she were wearing her trademark color. "I miss you, my darling," she whispered.

Nothing changed when she did. But she thought as she left the room, perhaps, maybe he looked just the tiniest bit warmer.


	4. Ouch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in this chapter. The end of the school year is a total whirlwind in my world. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the latest.

Peggy Carter returned to work the very next day. She knew people were looking at her, that they were watching her, but she also knew that to be gone was worse. No one dared speak to the woman with fire hidden in an icy gaze. She dared them to speak to her. She challenged them to make any comment about herself. None of them rose to it.

The days passed in a haze of files and report. She was on desk duty and while it was frustrating, Peggy rationally had to agree that she was, in fact, emotionally compromised. Howard kept her abreast of Steve's recovery, or lack thereof. He was still asleep, still fairly cold. He breathed on his own these days. That was something.

At the same time, they couldn't be sure he would wake, or if he did, that he would be anything like the man who'd left them a year ago. He could easily be a vegetable.

It was up to Peggy to face these facts; she made herself. Steve's body was home. There was no guarantee that Steve Rogers would ever come back. She needed to know that.

But for all her purposefully cruel thoughts, her heart fluttered each time the phone rang, every time Howard called with an update. Perhaps today was the day…

It never was.

A month or so had passed since Peggy had shoved her compact under Steve's nose. She was beginning to come to terms with the new reality, that Steve was home but not there. Unfortunate as it was, Peggy Carter was adaptable and she'd adapted to the situation as quickly as possible. Still stuck behind a desk, still antsy as hell, but Peggy Carter was not one to back down from a fight and this was one of the toughest fights of her life. She knew the men gossiped about her, knew the other girls did too, but Peggy ignored it. It wasn't difficult to put her nose in the air and pretend not to hear, knowing that trying to deny them would only serve to fan the flames.

She'd always been able to lose herself in work; it had cost her several friendships throughout the years. But work was numbing, work made sure that she could not possibly dwell on the difficulty in her life.

So it was difficult to pull herself away, even when Howard called and demanded she get to the hospital immediately. The doctors were trying a new batch of steroids and they were fairly confident this time. But that was a song they'd sang before and Peggy wasn't sure she wanted to dance to it. Still, Howard sounded excited and so she decided to go anyway.

Within the halls of the medical facility, it was so much more difficult to keep her mind quiet. She didn't want to get her hopes up because she knew that there was no guarantee that anything could work. Even, if he  _did_ wake, he'd been in a coma for almost two years and there was no guarantee that he would be fine. But  _how_ Peggy wanted him to wake up, to give her that smile again.

And so Peggy Carter found herself standing in a room full of doctors, hoping against all hope that maybe  _this_ time would be the time that worked. It was silent in the room, save the sounds of the machines that monitored him and the quiet chatter of doctors. She'd never felt so completely out of place and useless. She wasn't his wife, she wasn't his family. Officially, she wasn't even there. That seemed to be a running theme in their relationship.

People bustled with needles and bottles of things, preparing. Howard vacillated wildly between speaking seriously with the doctors and flirting shamelessly with the nurses. Peggy stood next to Steve's bed, unsure of what to do. The only thing that seemed to make any sort of sense was to take his hand in her own so she did that and felt a little more solid, a little more real.

After what seemed like forever, everyone seemed to agree that it was time to attempt it. Peggy closed her eyes when the needle went in; she never did like inoculations.

Five minutes ticked by steadily, marked by the doctor's steady watch and careful notes. The room had stilled. The silence was stifling, claustrophobic. Peggy wanted to run, to get out. The hospital air was heavy in her lungs, hardly worth breathing. She squeezed Steve's hand and it made her feel just the slightest bit better.

_And then…. And then…._

The machine monitoring Steve's heart sprang from the slow, lazy beep that it had announced for a month now, increasing in frequency and loudness. Doctors started moving around the room, someone was shouting with joy.

And Peggy, the only person who remained still, saw his eyelids flutter. Her breath stopped coming all together and she felt as though her heart would leap out of his chest.

_There were his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes_! Peggy's cheeks were wet, but she didn't make a sound and she didn't reach up to wipe away the tears. She was too concentrated on him, on the miracle occurring in front of her.

"Captain?" a nurse asked. "Captain, welcome back!"

Miracle of miracles, his eyes showed some life.

"Captain, can you say anything?" a doctor asked after a moment. "Anything at all."

There was an agonizingly painful moment as his jaw remembered how to work. Peggy thought she might faint.

"Ouch."

A ragged sob escaped her throat, drawing his attention. His eyes fluttered towards her. "Peg."

She was clinging to his hand as though it were the only thing tethering her to this mortal coil. She pressed closer to the bed, not noticing how everyone else in the room looked away to give them some semblance of privacy. "Hello, Steve," she said. Talking was difficult when her entire body felt like it was buzzing, electric.

"Our date?"

Peggy Carter was certainly crying now. Her vision was blurred as she bent to kiss his forehead, leaving a smudge of her colour there, marking him. Later, she'd threaten anyone who dared to divulge this information.

"Oh, my darling," she hiccupped soggily. "Don't worry, you're just a bit late!"


	5. Happy Ending People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the wait! This got particularly sappy, but I hope you enjoy!

When Peggy Carter was seven, she fell out of a tree and broke her wrist. She was forbidden from doing any of the things she liked to do, save reading, and she was stuck indoors. The lack of activity made her restless, uncomfortable. She was itchy with desperation to move, to not be helpless. Her mother had jokingly suggested that she would glue her to the seat of the armchair in the living room if she didn’t stop trying to escape, but Peggy Carter would not be deterred from her tree-climbing adventures. She broke another bone in her foot trying to break what could have been a much nastier fall if not for her swift reflexes.

Steve Rogers was much the same, lying in that hospital bed. His body, though healing at the same miraculous rate that Erksine had promised, was still weakened by his time in the ice. His speech was even slower to return than his physical abilities. He was monitored constantly; there were blood draws and progress tests. It was almost as painful for Peggy to watch as it was for him, she was sure. The last thing he had wanted was to be was stuck in a lab and there he was. In what amounted to no more than a lab and now with only a slow, halting speech to even express himself. 

In the early days, he could only mutter a few syllables. Peggy could easily read the pain, the frustration in his face. And oftentimes, he would look to her to speak for him. She didn’t mind at all, giving orders, commands, telling doctors to keep their ruddy needles away from him unless she was present. He’d never liked needles and she wouldn’t see him poked and prodded without someone there looking out for him. Of course, the doctors were there to supervise his return to help, but they were government doctors. They wanted Captain America back. Peggy was looking out for Steve.

But her favorite moments came long after official visiting hours were over. Once the night nurses were on duty, Steve’s hospital room went undisturbed, save an hourly check. And with the hospital quiet and hallways dark, Peggy Carter would remove her shoes and untuck her blouse if she wore a skirt or trousers, unpin her hair. Steve would slowly, painfully, move his body to make room, and Peggy would climb into his hospital bed, tucking her face into his neck as she tucked her body around his. It was peaceful there; he was solid, kind. Alive. She could protect him here; that was as close to heaven as she could imagine.

As Steve recovered, it was clear he was frustrated. His body, still full of the serum, longed to be active, it itched to move, but he was still weakened by the ice. On more than one occasion, Peggy found him gripping the doorframe of his room with whitened knuckles, looking pale. A simple glare from her was enough to make him accept help that came in the form of her supporting him as he walked wherever he needed to. They must have made an odd couple, his giant frame dwarfed hers and yet he leaned heavily on her. She could shoulder it. 

While Steve was recovering, Peggy still went into the phone company, though every day was a struggle not to beat one man or another with a stapler. The leers she got, the innuendoes, were frustrating at best and downright crude and disrespectful at worst. She did her best to ignore them; she knew why she was there, she knew how valuable she was. But every now and again, perhaps because she got too little sleep or she was feeling particularly angry at the injustice of the world, a comment would rub her the wrong way and Peggy Carter saw blood red.

She once felt Agent Brennan’s lecherous stare on her as she was bent over a particularly complicated bit of encryption, heard him lean over to the man next to him, mutter, “Be no bad thing to boss ‘er around. ‘Course, she’s taking orders from Captain America again- bet he has no trouble running up the colors, if you know what I mean.”

Peggy straightened, her posture becoming stiff as she turned. “Agent Brennan,” she said loudly. “Your ability to be both completely crass and unpatriotic in the same breath is nearly impressive. But if you’re this insatiable, perhaps we should send you home to take care of yourself. It can’t be healthy having such pent up energy.”

Lips pursed, she batted her eyelashes at him in annoyance. “Well? Shall we send you home to Mrs. Brennan, or are you having trouble running up the colors, as it were?”

She received no response and nodded her head. “Now, if you’re thoroughly finished making comments about things you’ve no right to talk about, I’d like to finish going over this code, since every moment you distract me, you’re endangering civilian and military lives.”

Peggy took the story to Steve that night and it was the first time since coming to the hospital that she’d heard him genuinely laugh. Cuddled up together as they always were, Steve brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the back of it, still chuckling. She could feel his breath on her skin and it was a struggle not to shudder. 

“Have I ever told you,” he asked, his voice back to normal these days, though still a bit more gravelly, “how amazing you are?”

“Oh, only about seven hundred times since you woke up,” Peggy teased. “That’s alright though. I’m up for seven hundred and one.”

“Amazin’,” he said as she pressed his lips into her hair. “You’re absolutely amazing, Peg.”

She sighed. The relief of having him returned to him was starting to wear off. Now that he was going to be fine, the reality of the world was starting to sink in. The reality of their relationship was one that had never seen a world without war, without danger. They’d never been able to spend more than twelve consecutive hours alone together and now… Well, perhaps they had a shot at forever. Or at least twenty-four hours.

“So, what happens now?” Peggy asked, her head returning to rest on his chest, hand over his heart. The steady thumping of his heart reassured her that he was solid, permanent and she brushed away all worries, all annoyance, in order to be fully present to him. 

Later, she would ask about his mile-long dramatic streak, why he couldn’t have just given her his damn coordinates. She could respect his noble, self-sacrificing choice, but he could have given her the damn coordinates! They could have found him that much faster, could have avoided a year of mourning.

But for now, Peggy was content to listen to the relaxed beat of the heart in his chest, the rumble of laughter that emanated from his gut.

“Now?” he asked and she felt his arm tighten around her. “Now we get our happy ending, right? That’s how it goes, isn’t it?”

Leaning on her elbow, Peggy lifted her head to look at him with a raised brow. “Our happy ending?”

“Well, yeah.” Steve’s cheeks were a lovely shade of pink as a blush spread across them. “That’s how the stories always go, don’t they?”

Peggy couldn’t help but laugh a little, not a cruel laugh, but an incredulous one. Steve Rogers, hopeless romantic. “I suppose so,” she said. “But are we happy ending people?”

His fingers dug into her hip, nose bumping her cheek. His breath was warm against her skin and Peggy said a prayer of thanks to whatever deity was responsible for his safe return to her. “I dunno,” he admitted. “I’d like to think so. Maybe not. But this right here? I’d call this one, wouldn’t you?”

She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, not quite a real kiss but too intimate for a cheek kiss. “I believe you still owe me a dance, Captain.”

The bark of laughter that burst forth from his mouth surprised Peggy, as did him swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pajama pants slung low on his waist. But then, at least he wasn’t wearing the hospital gown anymore. Standing slowly, he offered her his hand. “May I, Agent Carter?”

She gave her his hand in less than a heartbeat, let him pull her in close. “There isn’t any music,” she pointed out.

“Who needs it?” he responded, hand between her shoulder blades as he tugged her in close. Peggy rested one hand on his shoulder, arms more relaxed than they rightly should be.

The dance wasn’t a waltz, it didn’t even really have steps. In fact, they simply swayed in time to music she couldn’t hear, that existed in only his head. But the longer they swayed— the more relaxed his hold became, hand slipping down to her waist— the easier it became to imagine that they were dancing at the Stork Club, that he’d made their date. And maybe, just maybe, they could find that happy ending that had always seemed so unattainable.


	6. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here our story draws to a close. I'm sorry it took me so long to get out, but it's finally finished!

Steve was released from the hospital on a Wednesday. Peggy took a half-day and no one argued when she declared that her weekend started at one o’clock Wednesday afternoon. After all, a national hero _was_ being remanded to her care.

He was protesting the wheelchair apparently as she walked into his room, and didn’t notice her at first. Apparently the very idea of an American institution needing to be wheeled out of the hospital was completely absurd, a point he was making clear to a harried looking nurse.

“Get in the wheelchair, Captain Rogers, and that’s an order,” Peggy demanded imperiously from her spot in the door, but she couldn’t manage to tug the corners of her lips into a frown. Steve jumped and at least had the good sense to look fairly cowed. 

“I can walk just fine,” he grumbled. “That’s the whole point of me getting outta here isn’t it?”

He tended to drop all of the elocution lessons he’d had in favor of a more heavily accented Brooklyn accent when he got worked up, she noticed.

“Oh, hush,” Peggy replied, crossing to kiss his cheek. Maybe a touch of affection would sooth the savage beast. He looked a little calmer when she brushed her thumb across his cheekbone. “Hospital policy is no more her fault than it is mine. 

“Don’t suppose-”

“Don’t even think about it. Just get in the wheelchair. I won’t ask again, Captain.”

“I forgot how intimidating you can be when you wanna.” He still looked ridiculously put out, but at least he planted his ass in the seat 

Peggy smirked and leaned down close enough to brush her lips across the shell of his ear when she spoke. “As I recall, you seemed to like when I wanna.” 

She pulled away before he could turn his head and catch her in a kiss.

“Now, are you going to be a good patient for this poor woman who is only attempting to do her job or am I going to have to request restraints?”

“You owe me, Carter.”

“We’ll see.”

. . .  

He looked almost absurd in her tiny flat. To be fair, she hadn’t ever counted on having a houseguest when she’d looked for a flat. Steve was broad, tall, and her apartment was small with lower ceilings. And yet, though perhaps he was out of proportion, he seemed right at home as he respectfully poked around the place.

“I like it,” he declared eventually.

“Oh, praise be!” was the tart response. “Thank goodness; I was _so_ worried about your opinion when I decorated the place.”

His cheeks turned a nice ruddy pink. “That’s not what I- I just meant I like it because it feels like you live here. Feels like I’ve been let into some inner sanctuary or something.”

“And you haven’t even seen the boudoir yet.”

Peggy was pretty sure that the laugh he gave was more to cover up a surprised cough than anything. 

They hadn’t touched since the front door had closed; somehow that felt supercharged. He’d forced her hand into staying in her own bed. He’d take the sofa bed, old and uncomfortable as it was. He wouldn’t let her consider swapping, though he was the one returned from the dead.

But he’d made miraculous progress; aside from the occasional missing word, he’d regained command both of the English language and his mouth’s capability to produce the sounds at a speed resembling his old speech. His body was fully healed; not a single mark left to remind him of the ice.

“Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich or we could go out to eat…” Her mother had once told her that a good hostess never lets her guests go hungry and though Peggy’s culinary skills weren’t exactly world-class, but she could manage an edible meal in a pinch. When her nerves came out, she resorted to following her mother’s advice.

Steve looked over at her with a smile, one that said he knew exactly what she was doing. “Food sounds good. If you’re up to it, I could take you out.” She must have raised an eyebrow or something because he laughed sheepishly. “Or you could take me out. Or we could go Dutch.”

Peggy laughed, light and bubbly and full of life. “I’ve thought about it and you may take me out. On one condition.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“We go nowhere fancy.”

“I know just the place.”

The place ended up being little more than a hole in the wall that served hot dogs and sauerkraut and nothing else, with two tables in the whole place. Peggy and Steve opted to sit outside, on a bench in the little overrun park across the street.

Peggy took one bite and fell madly in love. The food itself reminded her how ravenous she was and she stuffed her mouth with glee, taking soldier’s bites, unladylike and messy, as she cupped her hand below her mouth to hopefully avoid staining herself.

“Take it you like it?” Steve chuckled.

“Best meal I’ve had all month,” Peggy agreed, pausing only slightly to answer before tucking back in. “How do you know about it?”

Steve paused a moment and Peggy could have predicted the answer. “Bucky and I used to come here when we could spare the change.”

She nodded and swallowed. “Well, it’s delicious.”

He was quiet for a long moment and Peggy could practically see the gears in his head turning. She stopped eating, wiping her hand on a paper napkin and studying him as he did.

“I dreamed about him. When I was… in the ice.”

Peggy said nothing, letting him reveal what he wanted when he wanted.

“We used to go over to Coney Island, ride the rides when we could scrape up enough. I saw that a lot when I was… asleep. Him and me, the old days.”

“I see.”

He looked down, away from her. “Saw a lot of you too.”

She couldn’t help the pique of interest in her voice. “Oh?”

“Not so much memories. More… dreams.”

“And what did you dream about?”

The tips of his ears turned pink. “Dancing, mostly. Taking you out properly… the whole works.”

Well… no wonder his ears were pink; Peggy could feel her cheeks grow warm.

“I shouldn’t have made you stay on the line like that. Made you listen.”

She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “There’s nowhere else I’d have rather been.”

“Still-”

“It’s over, darling. It’s over and done with. I could have walked away if I wanted. You made your choice, I made mine. Now we live with it.”

“You’re pretty swell, you know that?”

“Gee, whillikers,” she teased, adopting that flat American drawl. “I think you’re keen.”

“Peg-”

“I know, darling.”

“No, I gotta say this, I think.”

There was that accent again, the nerves. Peggy gestured for him to go ahead. “Shoulda told you a long time ago. Shoulda told you before the Valkyrie or at least-”

“Steve.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

Peggy kept her face smooth and watched Steve start to flounder a bit. “Sorry, was that-”

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you too,” she said and watched his face get brighter, happier.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Peggy?”

“Yes?”

“Is it alright if I kiss you now?”

“I’ll taste like sauerkraut.”

“Two things I love then.”

He kissed her then, a slow-burning careful kiss. The kind of kiss you give when there are a million more in the future. It tasted like hot dogs and sauerkraut and it was _perfect_ .

. . .

He insisted on sleeping on the couch that night. Something about old-fashioned sensibilities and respect. Peggy didn’t press the issue, though all she wanted was to wake up the next morning with him right there, to prove that this was all real, that Steven Rogers was in her flat, in her life, and in love with her.

She couldn’t sleep, not for all the tea in China. Restlessness invaded her bones when they said goodnight and try as she might she couldn’t get comfortable. She was about to resort to the novel she’d been attempting to read for the past six months when she heard the squeak and groan of the old sofa bed. Instinct told her to stand and check; her instincts had always held her in good stead.

Steve wasn’t asleep, wasn’t even in bed. There was a tight clench in her chest as she realized this fact. It wasn’t until she heard the tap in the small kitchenette that she relaxed at all. Padding softly into room, there was Steve. He stood over the sink, gripping the counter with white knuckles. Peggy cleared her throat to alert him to her presence and he turned. He’d washed his face but the red eyes gave away the fact that he’d cried.

She didn’t say anything, again, waiting for him to reveal what he wanted to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“You hardly need to apologize to me. I haven’t slept a wink all night. May as well be up with you.”

“Bad dream. I get ‘em sometimes.”

“Me too,” Peggy said and they both lied about the severity of their bad dreams.

“Really?”

Peggy had noticed he was already less tense; she knew acknowledging her own night terrors often had a way of helping to relieve them. She nodded and took another step forward. “You figure prominently into them. Always somewhere I can’t reach you. In danger. I haven’t had one in awhile. Right after the war, I couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time.”

“Peg, I’m-”

“I’m not saying it so you’ll feel sorry for me or guilty. I’m just… I’m here for what you need, alright?”

He nodded, muscles still tense but looking less pale and wan. Slowly, tentatively, she reached for him and he collapsed in her arms. Peggy ran gentle fingers through his hair until he felt more solid, more present.

“Come to bed, Steve.”

He shook his head slowly, teeth catching on his bottom lip and fingers closing gently but firmly around her wrist. “Nah, I’ll be alright.”

It took her a moment for her sleep addled brain, but she remembered just how terrifying those first nightmares had been, how truly terrible it had been to be alone with her thoughts. Peggy kissed the spot just below his ear. “Come to bed, Steve,” she repeats. “Come lie down with me.”

That seemed to be enough and he shuffled behind her, hesitating only slightly at the threshold and moving when she tugged at him. He didn’t lie down until she tugged at him, but collapsed the moment she did. Peggy carefully arranged herself around him so she could run her fingers through his hair, watching as his body relaxed under her ministrations, as he grew more peaceful, his breath evening out.

He turned towards her at some point in the night, their noses nearly touching and breaths mingling in the early morning hours. She woke when he stirred, scared he’d been roused by another dream and determined to be there if he had been. He wasn’t. Instead, he simply turned towards her, hand stretched out as if for her to take. She didn’t, for fear of waking him, but she didn’t move away.

When she woke, Steve was staring at her. Studying her, like she’d seen him study the subjects of his drawings, like he was trying to store every minute detail for later recollection. Peggy’s cheeks turned rosy at the thought.

He was the first to break the silence, a murmured good morning that Peggy returned. It seemed so beyond reality that he was really there. The sun had turned her bedroom golden, the cramped bed they shared turned into some strange form of paradise. She waited to wake up, terrified she’d lose this, no matter how many times she’d been assured of his physical presence in the past few weeks.

But he pushed her hair away from her face, leaned on his elbow to put his face closer to hers. Peggy waited, watched, nervous and unsure and beyond amazed that this man had chosen to dedicate himself to her. He pushed even closer, pressed his lips softly against hers and didn’t protest when she pulled him close.

She let him kiss down the column of her neck, pull her nightshirt over her head when the buttons proved too frustrating, so she was bare beneath him. When she finally felt his skin against her own, Peggy shivered. He stopped, worried she was cold, and she pulled him back, assuring him that she was fine, that she loved him, put sleep-warmed hands where she needed him most.

They fit together somehow, like pieces of a puzzle finally solved, and when he stilled within her, Peggy collapsed against him and he held her tightly. Peggy shivered again.

“You’re cold,” he accused her.

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I just missed you is all.”

His arms tightened around her and he kissed her hair. Whispering promises that she wanted to believe—he’d never leave her like that again, he’d be by her side always—he pressed his lips to hers again. He couldn’t promise her any of that. But he could promise her tomorrow and maybe that was enough.

Someday she’d let him see how thoroughly she was destroyed by his absence. She knew that it would hurt him to hear, but she needed to tell him. One day.

For now, she let him hold her—still like she was something precious—and she’d enjoy this little piece of a happy ending they’d been afforded for as long as it was there. Maybe they could be happy ending people after all.


End file.
